by Cat Bruno
With him atop her, none could see as she reached into her twisting braid. Moving faster than she had ever before, Syrsha thrust the mandrake into the great cat’s unclosed mouth until his tongue tickled at her fingers. Unsure how long the root would take to tire the animal, Syrsha yanked her arm free, and then thrust herself out from beneath him. Before he could run, she clasped his sun-painted fur, her hands cupping the stripes of his upper back.
The great cat leapt forward, dragging her for a moment until she was able to swing a leg over his back and pull herself to lie across him.
“Jao-Yang,” she whispered into his ear, soothing and soft as she rested her head next to his.
“Forgive me for what must come next,” she begged, although none but the great cat could hear her plea.
Beneath her, Jao-Yang did not slow, as she had expected. Instead he raced forward, and Syrsha clung to him as her bleeding cheek reddened his neck.
Twice he tried to kick her free, spinning so swiftly that she nearly fell. But Syrsha could not give up now; the battle was nearly over.
“Sweet boy, let sleep come,” she hummed as he flailed, whipping her legs with his tail.
Against the bodice of the dress, her life pulse thumped heavy, but her vision was clear. The Wolf would not rise, not here, for she had sewn one of Gregorr’s runes into the underside of the gown. Even the dark mage’s spells could not tempt the Wolf free.
Had her face not been pressed into Jao-Yang’s neck, Syrsha would have noticed her Akkachi standing, a shortbow drawn tight between his straining hands. Beside him stood Aldric, with his arms raised and shaking. Sharron’s eyes were covered by red-knuckled fingers, and her lips had paled to match her creamy skin. Only Gregorr watched without reaction, having realized that the rune was missing, she guessed.
The great cat trotted now, breathing hard, his body rising and falling with each step. On his second lap around the arena, Syrsha wrapped her arms around his throat. As he weakened, his steps slowed and she let her legs falls to either side.
With her right arm hooked across his neck, Syrsha gently tugged until Jao-Yang collapsed.
Tears, unexpected and unfeigned, dropped from her emerald gaze and mixed with red blood, falling onto the great cat’s tufted ears. Syrsha lay upon him, skin against fur, and her hair, free-falling now, spread across his amber eyes. With her right hand, she closed his rounded lids and kissed at the rune-like markings that swirled across his face. When her sobbing ceased, Syrsha lifted her head.
Rolling from him like a cloud across the sun, she stood.
Into the silence of the arena, where none dared breath, Syrsha cried, “Tian, if you long for freedom and long for a new life, follow me West! Women, I offer you what no man has before and welcome any who seek something greater! Men, you, too, can fight at my side, with honor, glory, and gold as reward!”
Behind her, the sun lowered, for nightfall beckoned.
Turning toward where the orange-robed Masters sat, Syrsha called, “Bring the ink! I have earned the stripes of the laohu!”
It was not Master Ru who jumped over the wall, but a small man, hunched and wrinkled, his balding head sprinkled with stray hairs. Syrsha did not recognize him, but his cheek blazed with the same marks she sought. When the man was next to her, he knelt at the side of the laohu. As the master’s hands reached for the great cat, Syrsha fingers twitched, arcing at her side as she weaved shadowy air. He must not find a pulsing life force.
Moments later, the man rose and proclaimed loudly, “The girl has earned her stripes!”
His words echoed, from Emperor to acolyte. None could mistake what the master had declared. Like a sea-storm, the crowd rumbled, then exploded. Cheers and screams surrounded her, yelling for her as whispers of her name spread.
She spotted Liang first and nodded. As the woman rose, Syrsha looked no further into the crowd. She would not seek out the others, who all knew her well.
Master Ru, flanked by two temple elders and a man in a simple robe of white, made their way toward her.
With a deeper bow than she expected, the shihon said, “You will not be named Master, but the stripes are yours. You will be given time to cleanse yourself before Ganxi inks your skin.”
Offering a curt nod to the shihon, she said, “I would just as soon have the stripes now.”
“Syrsha, your face must be stitched. And your leg as well,” Ru told her.
“After the inking, I will see to the injuries,” she hurriedly offered. With a lower voice, Syrsha added, “The Emperor sits in attendance still. Any delay and he may grow bored. Let us finish now.”
Syrsha nearly called upon the magic again until the shihon waved for the white-robed man. Around them, the crowd still cheered, until Master Ru lifted his arms for silence.
Once quietness settled over the arena, he addressed those listening. “Syrsha of Eirrannia has come to us unmarked, but will depart with the blessing of the laohu painted onto her skin! Emperor Wan-Li has honored her further with his presence at Sholin Temple. Let us rise and give thanks to the Most Majestic One!”
Few could not have known of the Emperor’s visit, yet they shouted even louder now as Wan-Li rose from his seat wearing a robe of gold, trimmed in purple and threaded with dragons. Syrsha looked away as the Emperor greeted the Tiannese, walking among them as if he was not their king.
Ganxi reached for her face and said, “The bleeding has ceased, but the cuts run deep.”
“Ink the right side,” she told him impatiently.
She did pull at the dark magic then, lightly, but Ganxi nodded without further argument. At his waist hung a pouch, and he drew forth a small wooden box. Across its top were carvings of flowers and leaves. In its center stared the hollowed eyes of a great cat. Opening the box, Ganxi showed her a thin, metal-tipped pick, which would be dipped in fiery ash and mixed with dusky ink.
“Even pain is reward,” he told her as he readied a small brazier that he had pulled from another pouch.
Nearby, the others watched, under guard. Still, Syrsha did not search for them.
“Hurry, please,” she begged.
When the burnt tip first touched her cheek, she gasped. Closing her eyes, she again told him to continue.
Ganxi did as she requested, drawing the point across her upper cheek in a curve that resembled the stripes of the laohu. Over and over, he traced, dipping the pick into the flames of the brazier, then into the ink, and then back into the ash before raising it to her cheek. When he finished, three streaks marred her cheek, just below her right eye, ending just before her hairline.
With both cheeks now burning with pain, she bowed her head to the gathered men and said, “If you would allow me a moment with the laohu.”
Master Ru led the men across the arena, to where the Emperor watched. Once the area around her was clear, Syrsha dropped to her knees, and reached for the dagger hidden in her boot.
*****
“We were told there could be no weapons in Sholin Temple,” the fennidi tried to explain. Without Syrsha or Liang to assist, the men could not understand.
The shortbow had been taken, although Otieno would have fought had not two men held onto Sharron, one with sword drawn. A group of two dozen men, Tiannese in look but not wearing the Emperor’s crest, had surrounded them just before Syrsha had killed the great cat. Aldric had tried to offer what words he could to name themselves as friends, but none cared. The only word that they could make sense of was Liang, which the man who seemed to be in charge repeated often.
When the Tiannese woman finally arrived, she stood just behind the mercenaries and called out to Gregorr and the others, “None will be harmed, for that was not her intent. But you must know that she feared you might interrupt. Please do not make these men draw their swords, for it will not end well for any of us.”
“So Syrsha has ordered us held as prisoners?” Aldric exclaimed.
Without raising her voice, Liang told him, “Only briefly. And only so that none will be hurt. Muc
h will make sense soon.”
It was clear that she would tell them no more, for even though Liang had been born in Tian, she was Sythian by right. Even Sharron had tried to convince Liang to tell them why it must be so, but she, too, failed. Now, they waited, watching as a white-robed man marked Syrsha’s face with lines of permanence.
To Aldric, Gregorr asked, in the language of the Ancients, which had once been taught at the Mage-Guild, “Do you feel the shadow magic still?”
With a nod, Aldric said, “It burns hot, moreso now than ever.”
“The fight is over.”
Another nod.
“The girl wore no ward, or her face would not have been split open.”
“There must be a reason for her deceit,” Gregorr concluded wistfully, although he could say no more.
He had known that Syrsha would fight without weapon, and knew, too, that she would conquer. He had even suspected that she had not confessed everything to him. But he would not tell the others such; instead, he would trust that her plan was not a foolish one. As he looked down at her, she rose, bloody and newly marked. Her dress, once as silver as his hair, was splattered with dirt, clay, and blood. Her hair had fallen from its braid and hung in waves around her face, reminding him of Caryss, who had appeared so on a battlefield moon years before.
When the men, mostly orange-robed Masters, cleared, Gregorr watched as Syrsha sat beside the downed great cat. The glimmer of the dagger blade made him step toward the wall’s edge. When he watched her drag the tip across her hand, the fennidi understood.
*****
The magic was strong, burning her as the blood dripped from her palm onto the ground. Without wrapping her hand in strips of cotton, Syrsha searched for the trails that glittered like midnight. Only Aldric, and maybe Gregorr, might sense her spell, but she had planned ahead and now they stood guarded by hired men. Liang would have much to explain, and she pitied the girl, but she would pay her well and name her captain when next they met.
For now, Syrsha weaved, drawing a shadowy web around her and the great cat that tightened with each breath. Her fingers danced swiftly, tugging and twisting the air that Lao-Mu offered. Ash filled her mouth, as if she swallowed fire and tasted bitter on her tongue. But she needed the blood magic and continued on. Over and over, she spun, like a spider, swirling invisible lines of darkness until even her fingers were entwined.
With one final movement, Syrsha rolled beside Jao-Yang, with her back cradled against his neck.
She closed her eyes and thought of home. A place she no longer recalled in flesh, but dreamed of often. With pines so tall that they scratched at the skies. With high grasses and yellow-flowered fields. With streams of ice and water, as blue as Jarek’s eyes. Syrsha thought of him, the storm-mage first, which surprised her. But she imagined her father as well, cloaked and shadowed, with ebony hair to his shoulders. And Conall, her beloved uncle who was kind when the High Lord dared not be. Syrsha remembered Blaidd, her hapless cousin who had grown into a man since she last visited. And Ohdra, fennidi Queen and true friend.
Last, she pictured Caryss, flame-haired and smiling, in a field of ripening lavender. Her mother called her home.
*****
24
Azzaro recounted how his ships would arrive and make landfall where the Sea of Mist joined the Domahaacron River. It was north of the Tribelands, but his fleet would avoid the crags and cliffs that made Western Eirrannia so dangerous.
As he spoke, Jarek’s skin prickled.
“A half-moon is not much longer to wait,” the Elemental interjected, shaking the chill from his skin. “I could have them here sooner, though.”
It was then that the High Lord intervened and said, “No magic. There are too many watching for it to be safe.”
“Then a half-moon it is,” Jarek sighed, looking around at the others to see if any else felt as he did.
Empty plates and full glasses sat in front of them all, and only Ohdra seemed ill at ease. She had eaten little, but Gregorr had been the same, deriving little pleasure from animal flesh. When Jarek thought of the fennidi, he smiled, enjoying the thought that soon he would see him again. He wondered how Otieno would appear, for nearly nineteen years had passed since last he saw the diauxie. Kennet, who fumbled nearby with his heavy mug, would pleasantly welcome his uncle, no doubt, and the High Lord’s manse would soon be home to many.
When Conall offered to refill his chalice, Jarek nodded. The storm-mage rose and walked toward the far side of the reception hall where a table had been placed. Moon years before, Jarek had entered the same room to speak with Lord Conri, and, even now, the tall windows disquieted him. Sunlight and nightfall both entered without bidding, although he had once suspected that only darkness could. During his stay in the Tribelands, Jarek had learned that many of the stories told of the Tribe were false ones.
That the Elementals were once enemy to Tribe held more truth than any, yet it was the one most forgot.
As he lifted the firewater to his lips, Jarek paused. He knew not why his gaze shifted, but he crept closer to the towering wall of glass. When a flash of light shattered the moonlit sky, Jarek pressed his face against the window.
Without breathing, he ran from the room.
He did not turn to see if the others followed him. Nor did he call out a warning or command. He only ran, with the speed of wind behind him until he was in the central courtyard, where he once trained as a boy.
How he realized that she was flesh and not vision mattered little as he rushed toward her. With a bloodied face and stained dress, she collapsed against him.
Her eyes did not open as she whispered, “Do not let them harm Jao-Yang.”
“Syrsha!” he cried, shaking her awake, “Who is Jao-Yang?”
“The great cat,” she sputtered as blood streamed from slashes across her face.
“I know not what you mean,” Jarek began, pulling her nearer.
But that was before he noticed the black-striped orange-cat stalking across the courtyard.
As Syrsha weakened and her legs folded, Jarek lifted her until she was lying across his arms. Her life pulse had slowed, yet he could feel the beat against his neck where her own rested. He feared moving, for the large creature watched, its mouth half-opened. Slowly, he stepped backward, with his eyes on the great cat. With each step, he grew closer to the manse. Across the field, the orange-cat fell to its side. Its eyes were only glowing slits now as its head leaned against the grass.
Jarek pushed at the door with his boot and carried Syrsha into the great hall.
Entering with her across his arms, he screamed, “Call for a healer!”
Someone ran from the room. Voices called out to him, but it was only the High Lord’s that he heard.
“What vision is this?” Lord Conri gasped.
Placing Syrsha gently beside the slate-rimmed fireplace, Jarek haltingly answered, “She is flesh, Conri, although I know not how she arrived. I saw what seemed to be lightning or moonstone and found her and the cat in the courtyard.”
With eyes so black that Jarek’s breath ceased, Conri reached for his daughter. His fingers wiped at the fire-kissed blood glistening on her cheek. He, too, searched for her life pulse as he pressed trembling fingers to her neck.
“She lives!” he cried.
Suddenly remembering her words, Jarek bellowed, “Conall, there is a striped cat, larger than a bear, unchained in the courtyard. Syrsha begged me to keep it safe.”
The Tribesman nodded, although his eyes had blackened as well as he asked, “What am I to do with it?”
“For now, it sleeps. Even once it wakes, it will not be able to escape from the inner area. Post men at the doors, but do not let the animal come to harm.”
As Conall rushed from the room, three fennidi arrived, although Jarek did not recognize any of them. Ohdra, having stood unmoving, now followed them toward the sleeping girl. Conri half-crawled away from her as the others circled. Only once before had Jarek witnessed the
High Lord seem more man than god.
He fears that she will die as Caryss did.
The Islander watched from across the room, standing with Blaidd and Azzaro. Jarek ran to the group and begged Blaze to explain again to Conri what had occurred when last Syrsha had time-walked. Both men returned to the silent Tribesman and hurriedly reminded him that the girl had recovered from such a trip once before.
“Conri, she was in Vesta that day, in flesh, and carried Blaidd from the tent.”
Shaking his head, the High Lord said, “It could not have been flesh, for she did not remain in Vesta. Perhaps she will not remain in the Tribelands, either.”
His words trailed off, as if he knew not what to believe.
“Perhaps,” Jarek agreed, for he was just as uncertain. “Let the healers work. When she wakes, we will have our answers.”
“Ohdra,” Conri called, before Jarek had finished speaking. “Tell me what your healers will do.”
“Tipton and Lolla are not trained as the girl’s mother was, High Lord, but they are skilled moreso than most.”
“Chessie, come here at once,” the Queen demanded of the smallest woman.
The woman rose and joined them as Ohdra asked, “Will the girl live?”
Her direct words gave the woman pause, yet she stated, “Tipton stitches her cheek now. She is Tribe and will heal with haste, although I fear that scars will mar her face. As for her leg, there is but one puncture, as if she had been bitten. It, too, will heal, as long as it does not turn poisoned.”
“When will she wake?” Conri demanded.
“I know not,” Chessie admitted, “For she appears spellbound.”
Unbeknown to them, the librarian had been listening and whooped, “She will wake when the shadows lift. Can you not feel the taint, High Lord? The girl is wrapped in a web of ash.”
